I aint’ never been part of a high class society
The thoughts that crave within me,
Blearing out with animosity
Breathing in the fresh-scented Musk, that’s
The fundamental process;
Called a nigga, me?
The ink bleeds out-
Poison running through
Are subservient to this outlet
The speech in broken letters-
Dripping black from dead fathers.
Through depressant prescription
For this white addled addiction-
Fight the lust
With hands that clutch onto this microphone
Despite the names that run around our atmosphere-
This height I’m on-
Poetry, the flow of feelings curled into the air ducts of school
When they mock you; vociferate that you is ignant-
Steppin on your steppin stones
Smeared up and down your pigment.
You aint’ nothing but words that shaped itself onto the computer screen
Words mingled together counteracting the balance-
You broken. You ingant. You aint’ nothing.
Poetry aint nothin’ but cute words laced together with needles
In love with pain and torture.
These words don’t mean nothing to me.
But I mean everything to the words that
Click. Click. Themselves onto the keyboard.
Disregarding the fact that:
I aint’ never been apart of a high class society-
Should have been-
I have never been apart of something so beautiful as poetry.